


Baker Street Family (ABANDONED)

by VincentMeoblinn



Series: Finish Me [19]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Anal, Fingering, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Imprinting, Knotting, M/M, Marking, Mating, Omegaverse, Oral, Scenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 13:12:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2653250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some one leaves a 'bundle of joy' at the doorstep of 221 Baker Street. Paternal, fluff, humorous, and sexy times ensue. Dedicated to Valrae03 (AKA my new muse)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Val_rae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_rae/gifts).



SUMMARY: Dedicated to Valrae03 (AKA my new muse) Some one leaves a 'bundle of joy' at the doorstep of 221 Baker Street. Paternal, fluff, humorous, and sexy times ensue.   
Friends-to-lovers (because I like their relationship coming together)

WARNINGS: OMEGAVERSE, Imprinting, Adoption, M/M, Friends 2 Lovers, Oral, Anal, Fingering, Knotting, Scenting, Marking, Mating. 

CHAPTER 1 (Below)

[CHAPTER 2  
](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/176823.html)

[CHAPTER 3  
](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/178269.html)

[CHAPTER 4](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/182067.html)

[CHAPTER 5](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/188116.html)

  
John gave Sherlock a wave and headed downstairs, his step light as he headed off to the clinic for his shift. He’d been pulling night hours, but that suited him so he wasn’t suffering for it; not when they mostly did their sneaking about at night anyway. It just meant less time changes for him in between cases. 

Sherlock reached for his violin bow and then jumped as the door downstairs suddenly slammed shut. He stood slowly, but then recognized John’s step on the stairs. John’s _worried_ steps, moving as if he were carrying something… fragile?

“Did a package come for me?” Sherlock called, but John bolted for his bedroom without answering and slammed the door again.

Sherlock wandered out into the hall and then chuckled when he caught the scent of a stranger in the air. There was no Omega or Alpha overtone, so it must have been either a child or a Beta. A child made no sense- John wouldn’t have a child around him- so John must have met someone on the step and taken them to bed rather than go to work. That was… odd outside of Heat, and Sherlock did _not_ smell Heat. As an Alpha he’d notice before a mere _Beta_ did. 

 

_ What if it’s not innocent? What if something’s gone wrong? _

Flashes of John standing in a Kevlar suit next to a pool had his feet flying across the stairs just as John threw his door open and headed down. They met in the middle and John’s eyes darted everywhere but at Sherlock’s face.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked softly, “Who’s upstairs?”

“A friend,” John replied, “He’s not feeling well. My kit?”

“Where you left it in the kitchen.”

John nodded and hurried downstairs, “Stay out of my room!”

Sherlock obeyed if only because he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. John was putting off anxious scent, but also leaking bonding chemicals. Whoever this person was they were inspiring him to draw in a mate and Sherlock needed to get away from him to keep his head on straight. He hoped John and his mystery Beta would go out rather than stick around. He didn’t want their friendship risked by his own hormones. So far John had managed to be out of the way during his Heats, leaving their relationship comfortable while still close as only Alpha and Omega could be. They completed each other. No bond needed. Sherlock didn’t want to risk the mess of sex in order to push that to the next level. He cared about John, but he’d be fine with him mating to someone else. He trusted that their friendship would remain the same.

John hurried upstairs with the medical kit, a bag of saline, and the tubes for setting up an IV. So his friend was worse than just ‘not feeling well’. That would explain his distress, but his mate-luring? It was odd but not enough so to distract Sherlock from his latest case. He didn’t even notice John come running back downstairs to fetch the water he’d boiled in the kettle, taking it upstairs in a bucket with several towels and flannels. 

John stayed home for five days straight, hovering around their mystery guest who was apparently so ill he was defecating in tea towels rather than coming downstairs to use the loo. Sherlock suggested a bedpan but John just laughed nervously and continued to fuss about the kitchen. He was taking unusual amounts of food to his room and Sherlock suspected he was eating it all himself rather than giving it to his guest.  

On the sixth day Sherlock lowered his violin with an uneasy feeling in his gut. He could have sworn he’d heard something… odd… over the sound of his violin. He stood still and listened for a moment, but it wasn’t repeated. He was just sounding out another note when he _definitely_ heard something. Then he heard something again, and there was no denying what he’d been trying _not_ to see for the last week. Sherlock carefully put the Stradivarius away and climbed the stairs to John’s room. He wrapped on the door, fully expecting John to respond with violence or distraction tactics. Instead he threw open the door with a look of relief and happiness on his face.

“He’s crying!” John crowed.

“Yes, I noticed. He’s also underage. His parents will need to sign the lease if he’s to stay.”

“ _I’m_ his parent,” John argued.

Sherlock felt the knot of dread in his stomach coil tighter, “May I meet him?”

“Of course!” John replied, puffing out his chest proudly, “Come on in. Sherlock, meet Martin. Martin, this is Sherlock Holmes.”

Martin smelled like John’s offspring, but Sherlock was certain that when he caught the scent a week ago it hadn’t smelled like that but it _had_ been the same person. Sherlock would have noticed a _second_ scent besides Martin’s. So if Martin’s scent had changed it meant that John had bonded with and scented him. He was now imitating his new mother’s scent and would continue to do so unless he bonded to a different Omega. He had imprinted upon John, and was already making similar faces and cooing prettily at Sherlock in order to win him over as well. 

For his part, John was proud and apparently content to be a single parent as he was no longer putting out bonding pheromones. Instead he set about showing Sherlock all of Martin’s fingers, toes, and his little peen. Then he showed him the scar on the back of his head.

“What caused that?” Sherlock asked, peering close, “It’s difficult to say with how well it’s healed.”

“Yeah, baby’s heal fast,” John replied, “It was a knife, though.”

“A kn- _A knife?!_ ” Sherlock asked in horror.

“Yeah,” John replied softly, “My poor baby.”

Sherlock watched him scoop the child up and hold him gently, the crying halting immediately as John sank into the soft chair in the corner of his room and lifted up his jumper and vest. Sherlock watched, completely fascinated, as he pressed the baby to his swollen nipple and the little one latched on.

“You’re producing milk!” Sherlock exclaimed.

“Of course I am,” John snorted, “How else would I feed my baby?”

“John,” Sherlock started hesitantly. One wrong move and he’d have a vicious Omega on his hands, and no way to stop him without someone getting hurt, “I think we both know that baby is yours _now…_  but wasn’t a week ago.”

John shifted in the chair, frowning a bit.

“John?” Sherlock prodded again.

“He was on our stoop, Sherlock,” John said softly, “Right next to the knife. Someone had tried to scalp him on our front step and I startled him or her into dropping him when I came out. I nearly didn’t catch him.”

“Scalp him?” Sherlock asked, and then gasped in shock as the pieces to his last case came crashing down around him, “Oh gods, John! He was meant to be a threat!”

“I know,” John replied softly, “Why do you think I threw down the bars on my windows and barely left? They were going to hurt my baby.” 

“He’s Alani?”

“I suppose,” John shrugged, “He doesn’t really look it, but that’s the profile of your killer, the racist bastard. What I want to know is how is he tracing such miniscule roots back to…”

“We’ll need to run some tests on…” Sherlock stepped forward, but John was on his feet snarling viciously before he could take a second. 

“You’re not running tests on my baby!” John snarled, clutching the babe tightly to his chest.

“Okay, easy John. Easy, I won’t harm him I just…”

“No! Tests!”

“Okay! No tests!”

“I’m keeping my baby _safe!_ ”

“Yes. I see that,” Sherlock agreed, backing slowly towards the door, “You know it occurs to me that with you occupied with motherhood it would be best if I earned a bit of cash.”

John visibly relaxed; hope flickering through his eyes as he sank down into the chair again to focus on the little bundle in his arms. While they were by no means helpless, Omega historically relied on Alphas for protection while they guarded their babies. Sherlock’s words had given his hind brain that comfort and he’d responded with a happy purr. Sherlock left him and hurried downstairs to make a call. 

“Lestrade… Yes I know I don’t normally call, but this is urgent. John found a baby on our doorstep a week ago and managed to keep it secret till now. He’s already bonded with him. I need you to look into whose child it is. Were there any children reported missing in the last week? Dark hair, dark eyes, skin indeterminate but I have reason to believe he’s Iranian by descent. Yes. Possibly our killer.”

Sherlock hung up the phone and headed for his wall to stare angrily at the scene there. The ‘racist bastard’ as John had so accurately dubbed him, killed off Iranian men, women, and children by scalping them. At first they’d thought it was only Iranian people, but then he’d scalped an Englishman and Sherlock had been brought in. The Englishman, it turned out, had Iranian roots. Or more specifically Alanian roots; a group of people who scalped their enemies long before they were later called Iranians. Not all Iranians had Alani roots, but all of the victims did. The question was _how did he know_? Not all of the victims looked Iranian, and most had no idea of their Alani roots. The most recent victim- before little Martin- had been a Chinese man whose ancestors had been pillaged by an Alani incursion. DNA scan had shown the tiny little proof needed that a melding had occurred during that unfortunate incident. The issue was that a DNA scan was the _only_ way most of the evidence of Alani heritage had come about. It was ancient. It was forgotten. Most people of Alani heritage lived in Ossetia, not Iran, and was well known there. Why search for rare strands outside of that area? Someone would have to have run a DNA scan on each of the victims, yet they had different doctors, different medical histories, different habits, came from different parts of the city. They had _no_ connection whatsoever; and now this infant, who judging by the age, had contact with the killer within days of being born. 

 

_ On the plus side, I’ll be able to publish an article settling the debate about Ossetian heritage when this is over. There is a definite Iranian descent. _

Sherlock’s phone rang. Lestrade. He took a deep breath. John would be devastated when they took the child away. It would probably result in subdrop and severe depression. He’d need medication and possibly hospitalization. 

“What did you find?” Sherlock asked, and then sighed in relief so profound he sank into his chair in a heap, “Thank gods. I mean, this is awful for the case, but John… Shut up, of course John’s more important than the case! No… I mean… I don’t know… Wasn’t calling you about the child the _right_ thing to do? Well… I suppose… I have to go, he’s coming downstairs.”

Sherlock stood and faced the door just as John walked in with his child in his arms.

“I did some digging. There are no missing children reported, so his parents are either deceased or the murderer _is_ his parent.”

“Who would hurt such a sweet child?” John asked, all but floating into the kitchen to start some tea while the child lay against his shoulder. Sherlock admired his ability to work with only one hand for a moment before recalling it was probably perfected when his shoulder had been injured. 

“A madman, clearly. Might I see the wound site again? I won’t touch him.”

Sherlock knew how Omegas were. They never let Alphas who weren’t their own mates _and_ the sires of their children touch their infants until they were at least a year old (the exception being their pack Alpha). Only then would the Alpha instinct to kill unrelated children in order to stake a claim on an unbonded Omega diminish. The chances of an Alpha killing the child of a bonded Omega was slim to none, but that didn’t stop the instinct to keep Alphas away, and John _was_ unbonded- as was Sherlock- so he had valid concern. Still, he’d let Sherlock _look_ at him once already so repeating that seemed likely.

“Well…” John hesitated, “I suppose. Just be careful. He’s premature so he’s very small and weak. You have to support his head.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to ask why he’d have to support _anything_ , but then John was tugging his arms into position and Sherlock stared down in wonder at the tiny bundle placed slowly into his arms. He carefully adjusted his grip and nearly panicked when John slowly pulled his hands away. He was holding an infant. A baby. An absolute honour for an Alpha. He looked up at John’s fond smile and blinked back actual _tears_. 

“He smells like you.”

“He should,” John chuckled, “He’s mine. Keep him quiet, will you? I could use a break. He’s fed so he shouldn’t be a bother.”

Sherlock very slowly walked over to his chair and inched his way from standing to sitting, staring in wonder at the limp, skinny bundle in his arms. A baby. John’s baby. A tiny little cub that meant so much because if John was letting him hold him than that meant he was John’s pack Alpha. When had that happened? HE had always assumed Lestrade was John’s pack Alpha. Lestrade was _everyone’s_ pack Alpha… except Sherlock’s. Mycroft had bowed to him, but not Sherlock. Sherlock had never had an urge to mark someone and start a pack. He’d been a loner his entire life. Except John had apparently bowed to him without letting Sherlock know. Or had he known? Looking back he’d felt such contentment and happiness since John had wandered into his life; a sense of completion, which was only increasing with the tiny bundle in his arms.

“John, he’s beautiful,” Sherlock stated when John sat down with a hot cuppa steaming in his hand.

“Yeah he is,” John nodded, “Never pictured myself as a mother before but… well. Here we are!”

“You’re clearly a wonderful mother,” Sherlock replied, “He must have been on the edge of death when you found him.”

“He couldn’t even cry,” John replied softly. “He just opened his mouth and panted as if he was in so much pain, and so frightened, and so _weak_ that sound couldn’t be mustered. It was heart wrenching.”

“I’m going to find whoever did this to him and kill him,” Sherlock said softly with absolute certainty.

“Get in line,” John replied, a soft growl to his voice. It wasn’t a challenge so Sherlock ignored it. 

“When did I become your pack Alpha?”

“I’m not sure you are,” John shrugged, looking askance as he thought, “I think Lestrade is.”

“Then why am I holding your child?” Sherlock asked pointedly, a scolding tone to his voice.

“Well… well, he’s _ours_ isn’t he?” John asked, “You’ve been scenting him for the last ten minutes.”

Sherlock lifted his head from where he _had_ been scenting the child between words, “I wasn’t aware.”

“It’s instinct, idiot,” John chuckled, “You can’t help yourself.”

“We aren’t even bonded,” Sherlock pointed out, “We’ve shown no interest in each other. Ever.”

“Platonic bonds exist,” John shrugged, “We’re one apparently. You can mark me if you like.”

Sherlock felt the urge shoot through him, a more insistent feeling than the subtle longing to scent the child had been, but it passed just as quickly.

“It was in your eyes for a moment,” John noticed, cocking his head to the side, “Then it went.”

“I don’t know why,” Sherlock replied, “Do you think I’m defective?”

“No idea,” John shrugged, “I doubt it. If you are I am too. I haven’t been longing to bite your neck either. It’s like we just fell into step together, you know.”

Sherlock nodded at that rather appropriate analogy and smiled down at the sleepy cub in his arms; a baby who was slowly taking on Sherlock’s scent as well. Soon his glands would produce both their distinct patterns, making him easily identifiable as _their child_ by anyone who cared to sniff the air. 

“Hello Martin Holmes-Watson. Welcome to Baker Street.”

[ Ammianus Marcellinus ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ammianus_Marcellinus) described scalping by the [ Alans ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alans) , a nomadic people of [ Iranian ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iranian_peoples) origin and the ancestors of the [ Ossetians ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ossetians) (scalping being still remembered in Ossetian folklore). [ [5] ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scalping#cite_note-5)

Scalps were taken in wars between the [ Visigoths ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Visigoths) , the [ Franks ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Franks) , and the [ Anglo-Saxons ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anglo-Saxons) in the 9th century, according to the writings of Abbé [ Emmanuel H. D. Domenech ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emmanuel_H._D._Domenech) . His sources included the _ decalvare _ of the ancient Germans, the _ capillos et cutem detrahere _ of the code of the Visigoths, and the _ Annals of _ _ [ Flodoard ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flodoard) _ .[ _[ citation needed ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wikipedia:Citation_needed) _ ]

According to [ historian ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Historian) and [ linguist ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Linguist) [ Friedrich von Adelung ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Friedrich_von_Adelung) , scalping was also practiced by several [ Slavic tribes ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slavic_tribes) in the 10th century. [ [6] ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scalping#cite_note-6)

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ossetians>

[CHAPTER 2](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/176823.html)

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

“JOHN! JOHHHHN!” Sherlock screamed in horror. 

John’s feet must have barely touched the steps in his flight down the stairs judging by how he miraculously appeared beside Sherlock, hair and clothes dishevelled with a look of horror on his face.

“What? What’s wrong? Is he dead?!”

“No, he’s _disgusting!_ ” Sherlock shouted, pressing the naked child into John’s arms.

Martin giggled and farted loudly, spewing brown liquid across John’s pyjama clad torso. John stared down at him in horror.

“He’s got diarrhoea,” John stated as if that were nothing of import.

“I’m aware,” Sherlock replied, indicating the saturated couch and his own brown handprints on the coffee table. Strewn across the floor were several of John’s tea-towel nappies, now stained beyond salvation, and some desiccated paper towels. 

“He seems fine with it. Why are you freaking out? Infants this young often have watery stool. It’s not a problem unless he’s listless or running a fever.”

“It’s not a problem?” Sherlock asked, his tone incredulous.

“No. It’s not. You woke me up and nearly gave me a _heart attack_ for this? Now I know why Omegas generally care for children. Pathetic.”

“Pathetic?” Sherlock repeated, eyes wide.

“Yeah. Pathetic. Honestly. Just a bit of shit and you Alphas fall all apart,” So saying, John gave Sherlock a look that was _far_ too high and mighty for someone covered in liquid faeces, and headed for the bathroom to clean them both up. 

Sherlock stood there, eye twitching as he stared after his Omega flatmate and their child… who was making raspberry sounds in apparent agreement with John’s assessment of his qualities.

XXX

“Gods, what happened here?” Lestrade asked, his eyes wide with horror. The sitting room had been sterilized- cleaned wasn’t a strong enough word- but had then been strewn with a liberal application of baby toys, little blue blankets, nappies, dummies, and baby wipes.

“John found a baby,” Sherlock replied from his horizontal position on the couch. He was pale and looked shell shocked.

 “Yeah, you mentioned. Am I allowed in?” Lestrade asked, hovering in the doorway and looking around curiously.

“I don’t know. John found a baby.”

“Yeah, okay. I imagine _you’re_ his pack Alpha- bit of a shock, that- since you’re allowed near the kid, but what about me?”

“I don’t know. John found a baby.”

“What colour is the sky?”

“I don’t know. John found a baby.”

“Turned things on it’s ear a bit, eh?” Lestrade chuckled, “Cubs do that. Is the baby sleeping?”

“I don’t kn-“

“Okay, I’m just coming in and taking my chances,” Lestrade replied, stepping into the room and heading for the kitchen. John wasn’t there. He turned around and headed upstairs, knocking lightly on his door just in case the baby was sleeping. 

John opened it a gap and smiled at Lestrade cheerily while whispering through the gap, “Martin’s just gone down. Give me a second to clean up. He sicked on me.”

“I’ll be downstairs,” Lestrade whispered, heading down to where Sherlock had begun snoring on the couch. He took Sherlock’s chair and smiled when John came down in a fresh jumper.

“Thanks for dropping by,” John stated warmly.

“I wasn’t sure if I’d be welcome.”

“Of course you are,” John chuckled softly, trying not to wake the tired Alpha on the couch, “You’re my pack Alpha.”

“Am I? I thought Sherlock was.”

“Nope, it’s you. I wasn’t sure, but now you’re hear I’m positive. You can mark me if you like.”

Lestrade bolted for him, pulling John against him and suckling a mark into his neck while rocking his hips into the Omega. The man chuckled a bit and relaxed into his grip until Lestrade stepped back, blushing a bit at his eagerness.

“Sorry. You’re just hard to pin down, you know?”

“I know,” John replied, “People usually aren’t certain where they stand with me. Sherlock theorizes that that’s why most of my friends ‘secretly hate me’.” 

“Yeah,” Lestrade chuckled, “Count me out of the secret hate group. So. Martin?”

“From a radio show I like,” John grinned, “The captain reminds me of Sherlock, though I can’t really place why.”

“Cute. So if I’m your pack Alpha that must mean that you and Sherlock…?” Lestrade waggled his eyebrows but John just blushed and looked away.

“Not really. Not exactly. I mean… he’s scented Martin too, but we’re not… like that.”

“So what are you?” 

“I’ve no idea,” John shrugged, “Beyond exhausted parents, we’re just… friends.”

“You don’t sound thrilled about that,” Lestrade frowned.

“I’m not. I mean… I’m not upset either but… I don’t know. It’s weird.”

“A bit, yeah,” LEstrade chuckled, “Look, I know you’re both exhausted from parenting and all, but we’ve still got a killer on the loose.”

“He got another one?” John asked, leaning forward.

“Scalped three in one night,” Lestrade replied, “A whole family. One… look I don’t want to upset you, but one of them was a child.”

A shudder went through John and he turned a bit green but kept himself together, “That’s just… we need to stop this bastard.”

“Sherlock’s running on fumes though,” Lestrade worried, glancing at him.

“He’s barely eating and this is the first time he’s slept in days,” John sighed, “I hate to say it, but he _can’t_ chase your killer right now.”

“What about you?”

“Me? I sleep when the baby does, which is usually now,” John yawned, “Little one is going to need a proper crib soon.”

“What’s he been in?”

“A laundry basket,” John chuckled, “Padded with a towel I stitched into a mattress.”

“Classic,” Lestrade chuckled, “Well, I’ll ask if anyone in my pack has a spare crib or some such.”

“Thanks,” John smiled with another yawn, “When Sherlock wakes up I’ll send him your way.”

Lestrade nodded, “Best wait for him to be on his game. Take care.”

John waved farewell and then went over Sherlock to drag him to his feet, “Come on, you big lug. Let’s get you into an actual bed. You’ll sleep better in your room since Martin’s wails can’t reach there.”

John pulled Sherlock’s arm over his shoulder and helped him wobble down the hall to his room. He went to dump him into the bed but tripped over Sherlock’s boxed chemistry set and toppled into the bed with him. He was instantly enveloped in a thick layer of Sherlock’s scent, his bed being his primary nest. This was exactly why he didn’t sit on the couch often. The couch was Sherlock’s secondary nest, something he occasionally let John join him in while they watched movies. John had _never_ touched Sherlock’s primary nest, that was akin to an invitation to bed him. 

Sherlock had dropped back into sleep the second his nest enveloped him, so John squirmed out from under him and scuttled to his feet. He needed a shower and he might have to toss his clothes in the bin. John moved towards the door when a low moan reached his ears.

“Joohn,” Sherlock groaned, hips moving against his bed. 

John turned and stared at where Sherlock had shifted over to nuzzle into the spot John had collapsed into.

 

_ Oh no. My scent is on his bed! There’s no way in hell he’ll miss that in the morning. He’s going to know and… _

“John, my John, my…” Sherlock sighed sleepily, tugging at he bedding in an attempt to snuggle it closer. 

 

John felt a tug in his belly. He hesitated a moment and then climbed into the bed, nudging up Sherlock’s arm and sliding beneath it. He was instantly tugged against him, spooned in warmth and Alpha scent, but not just _any_ Alpha. Sherlock. He knew he was encroaching, and Sherlock would have every right to toss him out- of both bed and flat- in the morning. He could very well be accused of Alpha-baiting, especially if Sherlock woke up wanting to mate and John wasn’t so inclined. John sighed, his body responding with lazy arousal even as he slid into sleep. _You know what? I think I will be inclined._

XXX

Sherlock moaned, hips rolling into the firm body in front of him. He’d not had a partner in his bed since Uni, and was finding it difficult to think past the plush arse he was rutting against. 

“Mph, Sherlock,” John gasped, pressing back.

Sherlock’s hands slid down from John’s chest to fumble their way into his trousers and pants where they cupped his growing erection. John groaned and Sherlock gave up fondling him to pull down his trousers and pants in one go, pressing the head of his cock against John’s wet entrance.

“No, wait, you have to…” John gasped, pulling away from him only to be tugged back.

“John!” Sherlock gasped. 

John focused on relaxing his muscles as Sherlock rutted against his cleft, pressing into him with short thrusts. He was _supposed_ to be stretched first, but the man was frantic with need, his breath coming in fast gasps as he pulled John’s leg up to get enough room to press inside. John knew how to stop his frantic push forward and arched his neck without an ounce of hesitation. He _wanted_ it. Sherlock crooned at the offering, his hips stilling as his mouth sought out the gland on John’s neck just above where it met his shoulder. Sherlock’s mating teeth slid out with an audible hiss of slick flesh as John reached back to hurriedly finger himself open. His ministrations on his own body became less hurried and more enjoyable as sharp teeth burst through his gland, spilling pheromones and blood into Sherlock’s mouth. John gasped, pressing back on his fingers before deciding longer fingers would be more satisfying. John rolled over the second Sherlock’s teeth unlatched and threw a leg over his hip. His mouth met Sherlock’s fleetingly before kissing his way to his neck while guiding the Alphas fingers to his bum. Sherlock moaned as his fingers slid inside of John, wriggling clumsily but doing the job. John smiled against the soft orb he’d located on Sherlock’s neck. He was so damn _awkward_ , but it had its appeal. It was Sherlock, after all. He was smooth until he tripped over his own feet and John had to help him back up. At the moment the only thing smooth about him was the knot swelling at the base of his cock from John’s mating teeth puncturing the gland at his throat.

“Oh gods, John!” Sherlock gasped, his cock twitching and leaking between them.

“Mmm,” John moaned, suckling it before releasing his neck with a loud pop, “I want that knot Mr. Holmes. Think you can give it to me without blowing your load before you’re even in?”

The challenge did the trick. Sherlock went from fumbling and anxious, desperate to get inside of him, to outraged and angry Alpha. He pinned John onto the bed, face down arse up, scratching down his back as he lined himself up with John’s gaping hole. 

“Cheekly little Omega _bitch_ ,” Sherlock snarled, pressing home with two quick thrusts.

John moaned, arching his back and pushing onto his thick cock. He could feel Sherlock’s knot pressing against his entrance, stretching it wider, but their bodies weren’t ready yet. Sherlock set up a punishing pace, tearing moans and shouts of pleasure from John who swore as he arched his back to ask for more.

“Fuck. Yes. More. Cock. You. Dick.”

“Shut. Up,” Sherlock gasped, pressing against the side of John’s head and pushing it firmly into the mattress.

John moaned as he felt his fluids double up production. Sherlock dominating him had always been a huge turn on, saturating his heavily padded pants whenever the man went on a rant at a scene. Now he had no reason to feel shamed by his ardour as he writhed for more, his hand wrapping around his cock to toss himself off. A few tugs in his muscles spasmed open further and Sherlock’s body instinctively recognized the welcome for what it was. John gasped. He’d never fully gaped for an Alpha before, his body rejecting all knots offered to him until now. With a strangled cry he pressed back in time with Sherlock’s triumphant cry as he all but threw himself over John’s body. Hot breath panted on his neck and with a sudden burn Sherlock’s knot filled his entrance. John screamed, his climax tearing through him as Sherlock’s knot stimulated his prostate with more efficiency than his most powerful toy. Heat filled his abdomen and he moaned as his second opening clenched around Sherlock’s cock, suckling him dry. He’d had longer men manage to pierce his depths before without knotting him, but it was nothing to the feel of Sherlock knotted inside of him. The bulbous base of his cock kept him in the perfect position to fill the hungry folds that kept John’s womb clean. Nerve endings lit up like fairy lights, sending pleasure jolting through his abdomen, down to his tiny Omega bollocks, and up through the head of his cock where he found himself spurting into his hand again.

“Oh gods, oh gods, Sherlock, _oh fucking hell!_ ” John shouted.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, “I don’t… I’ve never… what do I do?”

“R-rock your hips, just… roll them and…” John panted out, moaning as Sherlock began to flex his abdomen and roll his hips into him. The motion ground his knot into John’s prostate, setting off the suckling motion of the folds of muscle covering his womb. This set off a chain reaction and Sherlock clenched his hips, putting a pattern of bruises on his flesh as he came hard into John’s body. 

Sherlock gasped a few times before gently shifting them onto their sides. John let himself be pressed against Sherlock’s body, sighing in pleasure as Sherlock took his cock in hand and began to slowly stroke John’s prick while he turned his head. Their lips met, tongues gliding together lazily as they revelled in the taste of each other’s bonding chemicals. 

“John,” Sherlock whispered against his lips, “I want…”

“Yeah,” John sighed, arching his hips. 

They began to move again, lazy with their reached satisfaction as they began to milk their desire. Sherlock began to tremble first but John wasn’t far behind, his legs twitching as his over sensitized flesh was slowly pushed towards another climax. He knew it could easily crash at this point, leaving him feeling unsatisfied, or it could explode until they melted with pleasure. John forced himself not to focus on his building ardor, instead letting the glide of their lips and tongues direct his pounding heart. Their kiss sped up, becoming demanding and hungry. Sherlock’s hips were jerking rather than rolling, bringing tears to John’s eyes as his body convulsed with tiny pre-orgasms. He let out a frantic moan, breaking their kiss to arch his back and press his head against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“So close. Sherlock. My mate. My Alpha. Gods! I’m so full of your come I can _feel_ it moving inside me.”

Sherlock moaned and John groaned as his cock pulsed out more fluids into John’s already full body. He stared down at his swelling stomach, watching it expand as if filled with child. Sherlock stroked his hand over John’s abdomen, fantasizing about his cub filling him, and then slid his hand down to tease the head of John’s cock. John gasped, writhing as he used all five fingers to tease the foreskin, beneath it, and even dragging his thumb across the slit. John let out a strangled cry, tossing his head despite repeated impact with Sherlock’s jaw. 

“It h-hurts!”

“Let it hurt,” Sherlock growled.

John came hard, his body convulsing with pleasure as screams were dragged from his raw throat. Sparks flew behind his eyes and tears ran down his cheeks. When his body went limp his cock continued to twitch with tiny aftershocks, his womb flexing around the head of Sherlock’s cock to draw out every drop of his seed. John whimpered and sobbed softly, overwhelmed with Sherlock’s warmth, kisses, and the intensity of having Sherlock actually _focused_ on him.

“My mate,” Sherlock whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple, “My love.”  
  


[CHAPTER 3](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/178269.html)


	3. vincentmeoblinn | Baker Street Family Ch 3

WARNING UPDATE: BAMF!Mrs. Hudson. Awwww yeah.   
   


John awoke with a surge of anxiety in his gut and slid off of Sherlock’s cock without the gentleness he should have paid it.

“Fuck!” Sherlock gasped, sitting up and glaring at John, “That _is_ attached to me, you know?”

“The _baby_ Sherlock!” John snapped, shoving a towel between his arsecheeks and pulling his trousers up backwards. They didn’t button but he was mostly covered once he tugged his shirt down over the half of his arse hanging out his open flies.

“What about him?” Sherlock asked, flopping back down in the bed and giving John an annoyed look.

“We’ve left him alone! We can’t hear him from your room, remember?!”

“Oh. Oh!”

There was a scramble for the doorway and they managed to bounce off of each other like cartoon characters until they both burst into the kitchen where Mrs. Hudson gave them an amused smile. Martin was on her shoulder sucking on his fist and looking sleepy.

“Is he okay?” John asked reaching for him anxiously.

“John Hamish Watson, go wash up this instant!” Mrs. Hudson shrilled, turning sideways to avoid him taking Martin from her.

“But my baby…”

“Doesn’t need your filthy paws all over him! Go! Wash! Up!”

John gave Martin another worried look and then nodded and headed for the bathroom. Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow at Sherlock and he slunk off to join him. They washed quickly, without the romance their first shower together should have afforded them, and then John hurried out in naught but a towel. 

“Give him to me,” He insisted, holding his hands out.

Mrs. Hudson transferred him to John’s arms where Martin gave a whimper to let him know how upset he’d been by his absence. John pressed him to his chest, but he only mouthed John’s nipple, not bothering to latch properly.

“He’s not feeding,” John worried.

“I should say not,” Mrs Hudson chuckled, “I sent Mrs. Turner to get some formula when he woke up squalling over four hours ago.”

“Oh gods, my poor baby, I’m so sorry Martin!”

“Ahem?” Mrs. Hudson sounded off pointedly.

“Yes, quite right, thank you Mrs. Hudson. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes I did,” Mrs. Hudson snorted, “You two were still knotted. You couldn’t have fetched him if you wanted to.”

“Well if you’d brought him near the door we would have been able to,” John pointed out, “Alphas knots deflate automatically at the sound of a baby crying.”

“Do they?” Mrs. Hudson asked in surprise. She was a Beta after all, so many of the mysteries of Alphas hadn’t been taught to her. She was taught to care for Omegas and to care for cubs in the event of an Omega near her being unable to do so.

“Mm-hm,” John nodded, nuzzling his little cub, “My sweet boy. Were you good for Mrs. Hudson?”

“He was a _dream_ ,” Mrs. Hudson cooed, kissing his head where it rested against John’s bare chest, “And I’m glad you and Sherlock finally are on the same page.”

“Me too,” John smiled, “I can’t believe it took us this long. If it weren’t for Martin I’d probably still be chasing Betas… no offense.”

“None taken,” She laughed, “It must have been hard to find an Alpha who compared to your army chums.”

“Yeah, a bit,” John nodded, “I hadn’t really wanted an Alpha after them, to be honest. But Sherlock? Gods, he’s perfect.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock intoned, picking up an apple and taking a big bite, “I’ve always thought so.”

John sighed and rolled his eyes, “Should have kept that one to myself. Now he’s going to be impossible for at _least_ a week.”

“At least!” Mrs. Hudson laughed.

XXX

The man knelt over the descendent of his great, great aunt. She was a beta. Useless to society. She would hardly even be missed. He was rather disgusted, frankly. There was hardly even a point in killing her, but he knew his job wouldn’t be complete if he didn’t rid the world of _every_ potential DNA outlet, and science might still use this woman despite her infertility. 

“Sorry aunty,” He sighed, “It seems a terrible waste of my time, but you’ll have to go.”

He raised his knife and approached the terrified woman, ignoring her screams. No one would hear her from his lab.

XXX

Sherlock stared at the diagram that covered the wall, showing how each of the people who had been murdered were related. The last victim had been the final piece of the puzzle. She’d connected them all; a Beta woman who was related to all the rest of the victims via her Omega sister and Alpha half-brother.

“So they’re all related?” John asked, stepping into his Mind Palace with the ease of a mate.

“All heading back to one ancestor: a woman who was noted as being the first Omega serial killer,” Sherlock stated calmly, “I’ve texted Greg with a list of future victims. He’s sure to over react to it.”

“That many?”

“No, there were only seven left, but one of them is a packmate.”

“Who?” John asked in alarm.

XXX

Greg knocked on the door of his packmate. Actually he beat on it. More accurately he threw himself against it and pounded until it opened and he nearly fell through.

“Thank gods,” He gasped, “I was out of my head with worry. Listen, we need to get you to a safe house.”

“What? Why?”

“Because it turns out one of your bloody ancestors was a bloody psychopath and now _another_ bloody psychopath is killing them all off. Sherlock recon’s it’s some sort of vendetta, likely a survivor of one of her victims or that survivor’s widow or something. Either way, we found a family tree online and your name is on it. So…”

Greg toppled to the floor unconscious, the pinprick on his neck showing a small drop of blood. With a sigh his assailant grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him down to the cellar of his grandmother’s house. It was sad that this last relic of his family had led to such misery. He had never wanted to harm his pack Alpha, but they were hot on his trail and he _had_ to finish his work. It was all he could give his recently deceased grandmother who had written so extensively on the shame of her family line. Her fears that he would become a madman like his great, great, great, great grandmother would soon be assuaged when he killed off the last of his kin before taking his own life. With any luck Greg would survive to explain the situation to Sherlock and John, and with further luck they might forgive him… but he doubted it seeing as how they’d adopted his cursed son. 

“Sorry Greg,” He sighed, chaining him to the wall, as far from the bloodstains as possible, “It’s just that I have to do this. You’ll see. The world will be a better place when I’m done.”

Then he gathered up his supplies and left with a sad sigh. He’d have a hell of a time searching all the damn safe houses, but he thought he knew where to start. ‘Martin’ would be at the only one with facilities for an infant; easy to locate and under the care of an elderly Omega. 

XXX

Martha made herself comfortable in the nest of John and Sherlock’s clothes. She held Martin close to her and trailed one of John’s jumpers over his bare belly. He tried out a smile but forgot about it a moment later. She smiled and chuckled at the adorable child. The safehouse was a necessity while John and Sherlock tracked down the man cowardly enough to hunt innocent babies, but she was grateful for their scent filling it while she cared for her temporary charge. It had everything she needed, but it just wasn’t _home_ without her boys… well her _other_ boys, now that Martin was a part of her life. 

Martha sighed. She’d always mourned her lack of children, but that was the life of a Beta. Still, she had Sherlock and John, and now little Martin. It had it’s benefits in that she could be trusted to snuggle the babies and then hand them back without fuss, which suited her just fine as she wasn’t young enough to be chasing after toddlers anyway.

A rap at the door made Martha jump, “Now who could that be?”

XXX

“Sherlock?” John called, but the Alpha was distracted by the half dozen laptops before him, “Sherlock!”

“Hm?”

“Sherlock, Greg’s not answering his phone.”

“Who?”

“ _Lestrade,”_ John sighed.

“His name is Greg?”

“Honestly, if we have to go over this _one more time_.”

“So text him.”

“I did. I texted, called, and then I texted Donovan. She hasn’t heard from him either.”

“So? He’s probably off humping packmates. Isn’t that was pack Alphas do?”

“Um. No. Not really,” John snickered, “But wasn’t he going to check on…”

“Ah. Yes. _Him_.”

“So he’s not answering. What if the killer was _there_?” John snapped, unsure why Sherlock was playing stupid.

“Oh,” Sherlock replied, “I know he was there. I’m relying on it.”

“Wh-what?” John asked in horror, “You sent Greg out to be _killed_?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, “Anderson isn’t killing willy-nilly. He’s going after specific targets. Namely he’s going after his own ancestors.”

“Ander- _Anderson_ is the killer?! I don’t understand.”

Sherlock sighed and stood up, heading for the coat rack, “Anderson failed to kill Martin- don’t growl, just listen- he was undoubtedly planning on doing so as soon as possible. With all of his kin fleeing to safe houses who is the most vulnerable?”

“Martin,” John replied softly, “And Anderson will know where all the safe houses are.”

“Except I wasn’t about to send Martin to a safe house that Anderson knows about. So I sent in Lestrade- _who can take care of himself, John_ \- to send him on a false trail. He’ll be checking safe houses now, starting with the most likely location for Martin to be in.”

“Safe houses that _aren’t_ yours.”

“Exactly.”

“So Martin is safe?”

“Completely.”

XXX

“What are _you_ doing here?” Martha asked, stepping aside.

“There’s no time to explain. Where is Martin?”

“What? No! Wait! You can’t touch him! He’s bonded to John and Sherlock! Stop! Help! HELP!”

_ Bang _ !

XXX

Sherlock and John slipped around the outside of the building, studying the fire escapes to see if they’d been utilized recently. John was armed and his eyes read murder so Sherlock sent him up through the interior while he took the fire escape, assuming that he’d get there before his angry Omega. He climbed with both stealth and speed until he reached the barred window that normally would indicate an Omega was in residence. In this case it was for whomever occupied the safe house. The _empty_ safe house that Sherlock had made look occupied using a mannequin attached to an electric train set with a balloon in its arms to represent Martin. It looked rather convincing through the drawn curtains. Sherlock glanced around cautiously to make sure he wasn’t observed, but even if he was it would likely only convince Anderson that Martin was within. Then he expertly undid the latches he’d rigged earlier and slipped inside. 

_ Bang _ !

XXX

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Hudson fussed, sobbing as she cleaned up the mess on the floor.

“Honestly, you’re being ridiculous,” Mycroft scoffed, “We need to leave. Now!”

“That was Sherlock’s, you clod!” 

“Mrs. Hudson!” Mycroft gasped in shock.

“I _made_ it for him!”

 

“Mrs. Hudson _Martin is in danger!”_

“What are you going on about?” Mrs. Hudson sniffled, standing up and dumping the remains of the planter she’d made for Sherlock into a bin.

“Sherlock has been shot,” Mycroft explained, “John is in subdrop.”

“Then he needs his son to bring him out of it,” Mrs. Hudson replied, hurrying forward with her arms stretched out.

“No! That’s Anderson’s plan! Don’t you _see_? Oh, honestly, why am I talking to _you_? Of all the moronic…”

“You stop right there!” Mrs. Hudson shrieked, picking up a fireplace poker and brandishing it at Mycroft, “I am not letting you steal that child, Mycroft Holmes!”

“I am _not_ stealing him!” Mycroft shouted, parrying her thrust with his umbrella, “I’m trying to protect him so my brother has someone to _live_ for!”

“Liar! Omega child snatching thief! Give him back!”

“I need you to _calm down_!” They exchanged more quick blows with Martin screaming and wailing over Mycroft’s shoulder. Mrs. Hudson shocked them both by quickly getting the upper hand and the umbrella flew across the room to smash into a bookshelf. 

“If you’re on the up and up then give him back to me!” Mrs. Hudson wailed, tears running down her cheeks as she held out one arm, “Put him down on the rug and I’ll go with you. Don’t and I’ll make Posh Shish Kabobs!”

“I am so _very_ glad Sherlock isn’t here to see this,” Mycroft sighed, and then carefully lowered Martin to the floor and stepped quickly back.

Mrs. Hudson darted in, scooped up the child, and backed up while brandishing her poker.

“There now,” Mycroft smiled holding up his hands carefully, “We’re all _friends_ , aren’t we? Let’s just walk calmly out the door and…”

_Bang!  
  
_ __

[CHAPTER 4](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/182067.html)


	4. vincentmeoblinn | Baker Street Family Ch 4

  


John was shaking in his hospital bed, his mind fighting him for control of his body. Sherlock falling. Sherlock covered in blood. Sherlock with his eyes wide with betrayal. _How could this happen_? 

 

Sherlock could hear the doctors and nurses. He could hear the paddles going off. Dimly- and in a far away sort of way- he heard the monitor flatline. A voice whispered in his mindpalace. _It’s raining. It’s pouring. Sherlock is boring. I’m laughing. I’m crying. Sherlock is dying._

Tubes connected him to drips that sent chemical stimulants into his blood, flooding his brain with artificial endorphins to keep him from dropping into a catatonic state. They weren’t working. In the back of his mind one last attempt at survival shot forward. An image flickered behind John’s eyes. A face. Soft and cherubic. _Martin_.

_ Martin is definitely in danger. _ Sherlock’s eyes flashed open. His finger twitched. The monitor beeped. The staff turned back to him in alarm and began working on keeping his vitals going even as his eyes flickered shut once again.

XXX

Anderson knelt over Mycroft’s still form and checked for a pulse. He was pack, after all, even if they barely knew each other. He was connected to Lestrade and that was important. 

_ Lestrade _ . Anderson shivered. He didn’t know. By the time Lestrade had laid eyes on Martin both Anderson and Lestrade’s scent had been chemically erased by the bonding process that Sherlock and John had gone through with the tiny child. Anderson knew, though. It was impossible for him to _not_ know. After all he’d been the one to birth the tiny child and breath in the scent of the Alpha he could never truly have. Gregory Lestrade was a pack Alpha. He reserved the right to mount any and every Omega in his pack, whether for his own purposes or to ‘help them’ through their Heats. It hadn’t been planned. He’d never taken advantage before. Then Anderson had gone on a Mock Heat during an investigation and Lestrade had simply taken him to a car and had him six ways from Sunday. They’d determined that what had set him off was the victim. The _murder_ victim was meant to be Anderson’s Perfect Match. He’d met his soul mate in time for her funeral. It had triggered a three-hour panic Heat in which their pack Alpha had no choice but to stop him from going into subdrop by breeding him. 

He’d told Lestrade he’d terminated. He’d told him that he was fine. That without a bond there were no lasting emotional scars from either the death of his soul mate or their impromptu bedding. He’d lied. He’d lied and he’d used every trick in the book and avoided Sherlock Holmes like the plague as he hid his growing belly. Chemicals disguised his scent. Clothes hid his baby bump. When he got to the point it was going to be too obvious he’d done everything he could to find a way to escape his pack for a time. Nothing convenient happened. That was when he’d murdered his grandmother. It had been an accident, of course. He had been caring for her in her convalescence, taking over for the nurses at night, when he’d accidentally placed a chair leg on her breathing tube. He’d not noticed and her death had been slow and peaceful as he sat beside her, telling her all about her future grandchild while she slept. Then she’d stopped breathing and he’d realized the machines monitoring her weren’t functioning correctly. He’d tried to bring her back- realizing he was the cause in the process- but there was nothing for it. 

Her death and the estate cleanup had been the perfect excuse to get away from the office, so he’d taken it with a sense of gratitude to his dearly departed grandmother. It was while cleaning up the house that he’d found the charts and letters that showed his grandmother’s deep fear that his fascination with murder was a prequel to him becoming the murderer their line had the potential to birth. He’d laughed and laughed at the irony… and then he’d taken a pill to induce his labour two months early. He’d given birth to his child in the dusty attic, screaming out his pain and sobbing for help, and then stared down at the misery of his pre-term child and all he represented. 

For two months he’d cared for the undersized child, nursing him and changing him despite the fact it was tiring and frustrating and the baby was weak and probably about to die. Instinct made him continue even as he hated the child and all he represented of the future he’d never actually get to have. For a month he’d snuck out of the house at night to end the horrible lives of his ancestors, continuing work that his grandmother had been doing before the tumor had caught her out. At first he’d done it for Martin’s sake; to keep him safe as he tried desperately to bond with his child, to protect him from his possibly murderous blood relatives. Then he’d realized the only way Martin would really be safe was if he were dead. So he’d gone to Sherlock’s home, intending on warning the detective away, and prepared to give his child to the heavens… and had been surprised mid-scalping by one John Watson. He’d dropped his son, expecting the child wouldn’t survive, and been shocked to hear Lestrade bragging that Sherlock and John had finally gotten together _over an adopted child_. He had to correct his mistake. He hoped Sherlock and John could forgive him in time, but it was truly for the best.  

With a sad sigh he stepped over Mycroft and headed deeper into Angelo’s flat. It was just like Sherlock to utilize an Omega who wasn’t associated with Lestrade’s pack. Outlier Omegas- Omegas who were connected to other packs via Betas who often had multiple packs- were not usually trusted with something as valuable as the safety of a child, but Sherlock was anything but conventional. Still, while it had taken him time he’d found their bolthole above the restaurant. Now he could set things right.

 

_ Bang! _

XXX

John didn’t visit Sherlock in the hospital. He couldn’t. Not after what had happened. Not after he’d managed to _shoot_ his own mate! No. He was wanted by the police, and only Sherlock’s training had left him able to slip out of his handcuffs and flee the hospital bed. His only option now was to get to Martin and flee; hoping that another pack or at least a Beta would take him in somewhere. He couldn’t see himself managing by living rough with an infant for long, but shelters were kind to Omegas so if he stuck to major cities he’d be fine. Those were his only thoughts when he bolted up the steps with a duffel bag over each shoulder. Get Martin and flee from the overwhelming guilt and pain he felt. Take Martin to safety away from both murderer and the loss of John’s Alpha. Thus he was understandably _not_ as aware of his surroundings when he stumbled through the already open doorway and tripped over Mycroft’s prone form. 

John _did_ manage not to scream, despite the puddle of blood he fell into. He scrambled upright, glancing about for enemies while feeling for his knife. His gun had been confiscated by the police when he and Sherlock had been rushed to the hospital. He’d have to rely on his skills from the military, and that meant clearing his head so he _could_ fight before he made another deadly mistake. Locating the large knife, John felt along Mycroft’s jaw for a pulse. John left him until he could find his assailant. He could hear a steady, solid thumping sound from Angelo’s bedroom. He pushed nauseating thoughts from his head and slowly pushed the door open. Inside Angelo stood over the prone form of another Omega, stubbornly beating him despite the fact it was _very_ clear the Omega had died some time ago. John glanced around frantically and his eyes fell on Mrs. Hudson in the corner of the room. She was curled up with Martin, keeping his eyes away from the Omega-on-Omega brutality, and cooing to him gently. John caught a familiar scent in the air and shuddered. 

 

_ Martin’s biological mother.  _

John cleared his throat, ducking a swing when Angelo spun about, and making a face as blood and vitriol sprayed the wall and doorway behind him. 

“Okay, Angelo?” John asked, “It’s John.”

“John,” Angelo panted, “My friend! Come in! Your baby and Beta safe as promised!”

John couldn’t help but smile at the cheerful grin on the man’s face. It was easy to imagine the red coating him was pasta sauce instead of blood… until one looked down at the _very_ broken form of Anderson on the floor. 

“Where is Sherlock?” Angelo asked.

John winced and hurried to his son, “He’s waiting downstairs in a cab. We’re to head to the country and give Martin a chance to recover from all of this trauma.”

“A good idea. A good Alpha, that Sherlock. You are a lucky man, John! A very lucky Omega! You wait here. I pack you food for your trip.”

“That would be lovely, thank you,” John replied, heaving his son into his arms, “What happened to Mycroft?”

“He tried to take Martin from me,” Mrs. Hudson replied, releasing the lad into John’s arms, “I let him have it a few times and then Angelo took over. I do hope he’s alright, but he shouldn’t have tried to take him!”

“No,” John replied, “He shouldn’t. I wonder why he did?”

“He said he wanted to take him to Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson replied, “That he’d been shot! It’s not true, is it?”

“No,” John lied, hating himself for it.

 

“Of course not. You said Sherlock is downstairs?” Mrs. Hudson accepted John’s help in rising, “I’ll just pop down and see him. I could use a bit of Alpha scent right now. Such a night! And my _hip!”_

John panicked for a moment, then grabbed the bat one-handed and knocked her hard across the head. He knelt to make sure she was alive, noting that she’d remained conscious but confused and giving him the look of betrayal that he deserved.

 

“I’m sorry,” John whispered, “You’ll tell Sherlock, won’t you? I’m so, so sorry.” _Assuming Sherlock lives…_

John fled downstairs, shushing his wailing son, and met Angelo in the kitchen. He accepted the bag full of cartons of pasta, chicken, cream sauce, gravy, and a glass bottle of milk with as much politeness as he could manage while being brisk and insisting he had to go. He was halfway out the door when Mrs. Hudson called to him in a devastated voice. Angelo shouted to him as well, his tone alarmed, and John bolted out the door and into the waiting cab. 

“Drive! Go! Anywhere!”

The cab peeled away just as Angelo appeared with the bat and a horrified look on his face. He just closed his eyes and wept while holding his son close and praying they could escape the city before Mycroft’s men noticed both of them missing and called out the cavalry.   
  
_ A/N The age difference noticed (Sherlock believes Martin is a newborn- implying he is only a few days old- when he first sees him while John refers to him as premature) is due to John's medical background. He was technically two months old when John rescued him but was born early and cared for poorly so he was not thriving. He would appear as a newborn as it was close to his intended due date. _   
  


[CHAPTER 5](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/188116.html)


	5. vincentmeoblinn | Baker Street Family Ch 5

 

“Easy,” Lestrade soothed, stroking Sherlock’s cheek, “It’s going to be okay. I’ll find them both. I’ll bring them home.”

“John… not his fault… tricked…”

“I know. I didn’t buy that shit about him shooting you on purpose for a damn second. Anderson _drugged me_ and locked me in his grandmother’s _basement_ for fuck’s sake. I wasn’t about to take Donovan’s word as law once I heard it came from him.”

“Should have… taken the stairs.”

“Shut it,” Lestrade soothed again, using his Alpha power to comfort the agitated packmate, “I’ll bring them both home to you.”

“Do you know?” Sherlock struggled, eyes wide with fear.

That stopped Lestrade in his tracks. Sherlock afraid? 

“Do I know what?”

“Can’t… Secret… Ruin everything… All over… Lose my mate…”

 “Sherlock, you have to tell me,” Lestrade worried, “I’ll prevent it if I can, but I can’t unless you tell me.”

Sherlock shook his head, his eyes darting around the room in terror as the situation mixed with the drugs and muddled his brain. 

 

“Secret. Can’t,” Then Sherlock’s eyes focused on Lestrade in wide-eyed horror, “Lestrade can’t ever find out or I’ll lose John forever _._ Please. Phillip. _Please_ don’t tell him! I’ll give you Martin just… _don’t tell him!”_

Lestrade drew back, eyes wide with horror as his hand slipped out of Sherlock’s weak grip. That couldn’t have been what he’d just thought it was. Phillip Anderson was dead, beaten to a pulp while trying to steal Martin from Mrs. Hudson. The police had all but clapped his killer on the back despite Anderson being one of theirs. Harming a child was the most horrific and nauseating crime anyone was capable of. Yet here was Sherlock _offering_ Martin to Anderson in exchange for… his silence? What secret could Anderson have had that would cause John to leave Sherlock, that would warrant _giving him_ Martin? Was that how Anderson had found their hide-away? Was that why John had shot him? Had it _not_ been an accident?  

XXX

John slipped into the shelter with his son pressed to his breast beneath his shirt, suckling happily away. It was miserable looking, but he’d expected that. There were cots with threadbare blankets and each had a small ‘bassinet’ beside it. The bassinet part was debatable because they appeared to be plastic boxes with a foam mat in the bottom. Warm, unisex, one-size-fits-most clothing was available for the infants. Nothing was available for the parents. A large sign read OMEGA+ ONLY SHELTER prominently displayed in the centre of all four walls. An office in the front had a sliding glass window that slid open. 

“Can I help you?” A large Omega woman asked.

“Hi, I’m hoping to bed down here for the night?”

“Name, gender, age, weight, last meal and when, child name, age, weight, last meal and when.”

A clipboard was pushed towards him and he took it.

_ Caroline Knapp-Shappey. Male Omega. 38. 142Ib. Spagetti with meatballs. 11PM yesterday. Arthur Shappey. 3 mos. 9Ib 14oz. Breast milk. 1:32A today. _ _ _

John handed the clipboard back and was passed a blanket, pillow, onesie, and a card that stated he could have breakfast in the morning. His disguise as a (rather ugly) female Omega would hopefully hold up in these close quarters. It was his best bet against avoiding people figuring out who he was based on a missing persons description. The large brown wig he’d bought at a shop would at least distract from his face a bit. 

“You have to be out of here and looking for other accommodations by 10 AM tomorrow… sorry… _this_ morning. If you need assistance with translation, job searching, or contacting agencies and/or family you must report to this office by 9 AM. Breakfast is at 7AM and ends at 9AM. No exceptions.”

“Thank you,” John replied with a grateful (and fake) smile.

He headed for the nearest bunk, slipped under the threadbare cover, finished nursing his gorgeous child, slipped him into his _own_ night romper, and laid him down to sleep after winding him for a few minutes. He was out in seconds, too tired after their long journey to be bothered with fussing over their odd surroundings. John wasn’t far behind.

XXX

Sherlock was far less bleary and disoriented the next day as Lestrade stepped into his room once again. 

“John?” Sherlock asked, his tone not very hopeful. 

“Missing,” Lestrade sat down in the visitors chair, “You said some strange thing while you were under.”

“Not admissible in court,” Sherlock replied, still tired and looking pale, “How did I get here? What happened? Where’s John?”

“Your voice is as flat as the carpet we found you bleeding out on,” Lestrade sighed, “You know what happened. You can stop playing dumb. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Fine. What do you want?”

“To know what happened between you and John. Why did he shoot you?”

“I can’t tell you. I’ll lose him. Forever.”

“You’ve already lost him. He’s gone, Sherlock. He took Martin and _fled_. Fled _you_ , apparently, or the law. Maybe both.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, his face twisting in pain, “He’ll come back. He has to.”

“Did you offer Martin to Anderson?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, “But I had a _plan_.”

“A plan to get him back?”

“Yes.”

“Was he in your arms when you offered him to Anderson?”

“No.”

“Was he nearby?”

“No.”

“What does Anderson have on you?”

“Nice try, but he’s dead. I can tell by the way you held your shoulders when you walked in. Martins secret dies with him,” Sherlock smirked, still not opening his eyes.”

“Sherlock, are you going to press charges against John?”

“No.”

“Good, because he’s got no chance. He can’t plead that he was protecting his cub if his cub wasn’t there. The law doesn’t let maternal protective instinct extend _that_ far.”

“Duly noted. Thank you.”

“What are you going to do? I doubt he’ll listen to reason. You _threatened_ his _cub_.”

“Except according to the letter of the law,” Sherlock sighed.

“Yeah, but aside from that,” Lestrade scoffed, “What are you going to do?”

“Find him. Win him back. Or die trying.”


	6. Chapter 6

John woke up to a grouchy woman shaking him and ordering him up.

“You missed breakfast.”

John groaned and pulled himself upright, staring down at his sleeping son. Martin was still sound asleep, so tired from their trip he’d not woken as he normally would to demand food. It didn’t help that him being (by John’s best guess) premature meant Martin was breastfeeding longer. Most babies weaned by three months, right around the time they started crawling and perhaps even standing. Martin was far behind babies his age. He really needed to see a paediatrician, not be dragged across the country by his terrified mum.

“Let’s go,” John sighed, scooping Martin up, “I’ll have to get something to eat somewhere else so I can nurse you.”

Except it turned out he didn’t. Someone had saved him an egg sandwich and a jar of baby food and bagged it, apparently taking pity on the exhausted pair. John accepted it with a good deal of thanks and headed out to walk the streets while thinking up his next step. He had Martin in a carrier and regularly glanced down at his drowsy face while he ate his sandwich and chatted with his son.

“Well, Marty,” John sighed, “We’re going to have to figure _something_ out. I can’t go to Harry, that’s the first place Sherlock would look. I’m going to miss him, you know. I realize he crossed a line that I can’t just go and forget about but… gods, I love him. So much. It’s going to be rough starting over. I’ll have to find a way to go by an alias because Mycroft is _damn_ sure to track me. I should probably find a way to leave the country.”

John had his passport. When you walked the streets with Sherlock Holmes you _never_ left home without it. You never knew when he’d just hop on a plane and you’d have to either follow or be left behind. Still, he was worried if he tried to hop a plane _now_ instead of yesterday before Mycroft had time to recover from his assault, that he’d end up with the plane stopped.

“I need a fake ID,” John sighed, “ _Why_ did I never run with the bad kids in school?”

XXX

Sherlock was in a bad way but there was no keeping him in the hospital. Instead Mycroft hired a private nurse with a military background to follow him about. Mycroft himself was reviewing CCTV while Sherlock got in touch with his Homeless Network. Mycroft was less than pleased with John, but upon hearing the reason _why_ he’d run off he was also less than pleased with Sherlock. Anderson’s corpse he refused to even acknowledge other than to smooth over the case for Angelo. He was protecting a child so it wouldn’t even get to court.

Meanwhile Sherlock was determined to locate and re-seduce his mate despite miles of painkillers pumping through his veins. Lestrade was impressed that he could make it around in a wheelchair as easily as he did while high as a kite, let alone deduce the behaviour of his escaping mate while said mate tried to hide from him. Sherlock had already sent his ‘troops’ out to six different locations and checked the basement. Mrs. Hudson was amused by him checking the basement but Sherlock pointed out it _was_ the last place he’d look, which made it a very good possibility as well as the _first_ place he looked, but John wasn’t there either.

It took a good twenty-six hours, but he was finally able to find out where John was hiding and under what name. Sherlock groaned in disgust at how idiotic his beloved was by choosing names from a radio show! He wanted to go and get him himself, but Mycroft’s nurse tied him to a bed and the pain killers were keeping him from escaping. She did text his pleas to Mycroft who responded that he was having John picked up. At the very least his Omega was no longer in the wind.

John was picked up while trying to buy a fake ID. Mycroft gave him a scolding look and had him packed into a car with a carseat. John fretted the entire way back despite Mycroft trying to explain to him that Sherlock hadn’t been sincere in his threats towards Martin.

“You know he lies _constantly_ ,” Mycroft reminded him.

“Yeah, not really comforting,” John sighed.

“What will you do with yourself? A single mother without a job, family, or pack?”

“I’ll make my way,” John replied, “I can join a pack. It means breaking my bond with Sherlock, but…”

“You _can’t_ do that!” Mycroft sputtered, “He’ll turn to drugs again!”

“I can’t be held responsible for him! I have a son to care for!”

“You’re his _mate_!”

“I’m _convenient!”_

“You can’t actually believe that!”

“What am I supposed to believe?!” John shouted, “He _threatened my cub!”_

“He was negotiating!”

“You don’t negotiate with children!”

“Yes, I do! Regularly! It’s my _job_ to see to the commonwealth!”

“Sherlock isn’t the commonwealth he’s _my Alpha_ , he’s supposed to see to me!” John swallowed his tears, looking away angrily and leaning over to sooth Martin where he wailed in the car seat, “He hates these things.”

“So did Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, “The perfect opposite of _normal_ children.”

“He is normal!” John shouted.

“I didn’t mean…”

“I know what you meant,” John growled, pressing a dummy into Martin’s mouth and wishing he could do the same to Mycroft, “I’m not going back. Just let me go, Mycroft. This isn’t fixable.”

“You’ve not _tried_.”

“I know…” John breathed, “He just… those words… they were the absolute worst things he could have ever said.”

“Yes, he’s rather good at that.”

“He’s my Alpha,” John sighed.

“Undeniably.”

“I love him.”

“Unbelievably.”

“He would never hurt Martin.”

“Unnecessarily.”

“Well,” John snorted and shifted in his seat, “I feel like an idiot.”

“Unquestionably.”

“I should… call him or text him or something.”

“We _are_ headed there.”

“Yeah but… I shot him and…”

“He’ll be fine without hearing from you just yet.”

“You don’t want to deal with a sappy display, do you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Well, choke on it, because I’m calling him.”

The phone rang a few times and then Sherlock’s deep voice answered. John swallowed twice before he could speak, but Sherlock simply waited.

“Sherlock…”

“I know.”

John smiled softly and let out a sigh of relief. He opened his mouth to tell Sherlock he loved him but a gasp from Mycroft had him looking up. The man’s eyes were wide with horror but John didn’t have time to turn before the truck hit them from the driver’s side.

 

XXX

The call had ended abruptly with a very loud screech of tires and metal, sending Sherlock’s heart into his throat. There was nothing he could do while bound in more than one way, but his adrenalin was still pounding through his veins. He glanced at his nurse who gave him a suspicious look and then a very terrifying smile. She walked over to his laptop and keyed it up _using his password!_

“It might take a moment, but you’ll get a message soon. Patience.”

The screen reflected the room, and it took his sluggish mind only twenty seconds to determine the location of the camera. Useless. He was incapable of doing anything except appearing calm and hoping John and Martin were still alive. He waited for nearly two hours and then the screen turned to snow before an unfamiliar face appeared. It was a sharply dressed Irish man with eyes so black they seemed to absorb the light around them like two black holes. He put a finger to his lips and hissed out a soft _Shhhh_. The camera panned out and it seemed he was sitting on a pool chair with a small bundle in his arms, though he was fully dressed in a posh Westwood suit. The man began to sing and Sherlock felt chilled to his bones.

“Hush little baby, don’t you scream,  
Uncle’s gonna give you a deep bad dream,  
And if that dream’s too hard to deduce,  
Uncle’s gonna get you a puzzle to muse,  
And if that puzzle should rot your brain,  
Uncle’s gonna make blood fall like rain,  
And if that rain should make you cry,  
Uncle’s gonna teach you how to fly,  
And if that flight should lead to a fall,  
You’ll still be the _sweetest_ little baby of them all.”

 

_A/N Please don't hate me._


End file.
